


Blutrunst: Lessen

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Blutrunst - Fandom, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Herod is not qualified to instruct young people in any subject but apparently that will not stop him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:52:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5756155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herod Bethlehem teaches a few music lessons.  (Plus a little murder!Greg, because I can’t quite help myself.)</p><p>A commission for dragoncatkhfan, set in the world of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3410591/chapters/7467935">Blutrunst</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blutrunst: Lessen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragoncat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoncat/gifts).



He turned the corner of Aspen Street and very nearly tripped over a small family party out for a walk.

Drat the late summer months. It was clearly too late to turn around and escape without being seen, so he touched the brim of his hat and clucked his tongue at Turtle. Before they could get to the other side of the street, the mother of the group looked at him and smiled.

“Mr. Bethlehem!” she said.

Herod stared at her for a moment or two before her face registered. It was the veterinarian.

“Good evening, doctor,” he murmured. He glanced at the boys. "Children.“

“This is a coincidence! We were just talking about you,” the veterinarian said.

Herod tensed a little, swaying a little. "Were you, now? I had no idea my reputation so preceded me.“

"Can I pet your dog?” the smallest boy asked.

Herod gestured to his pet. Turtle sat down and let the little child pet him.

“Lorna mentioned you just the other day,” the veterinarian said to Herod. "She says you’re a musician. A vocalist and a pianist?“

"Yes, that’s right. I was a vocalist and I learned to play the piano as a child. But mostly I compose, now.”

“A composer!” the veterinarian said, turning her head to look at the older child wide eyes. The boy looked embarrassed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Isn’t that interesting, Wirt? Wirt’s a musician himself, and a poet, too.“

"Mom,” Wirt hissed.

“Some day he might be a composer, too,” the veterinarian said. "I bet you have all sorts of advice for young musicians, Mr. Bethlehem.“

Herod huffed a laugh. 'Don’t get leprosy’ probably wasn’t particularly helpful.

The veterinarian was staring at her son like she was expecting something from him. "In fact, Mr. Bethlehem, I bet you could help a young musician learn a few new things! Every young composer should know how to play the piano, shouldn’t they?”

“Certainly,” Herod said slowly.

The veterinarian turned to look at him and smiled again. "You don’t happen to give music lessons, do you, Mr. Bethlehem?“

Herod’s eyes swelled in his head. The young man, too, looked astonished.

"Mom!” Wirt cried.

“I’m not really qualified,” Herod stammered.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true! Lorna said that you are a virtuoso and definitely the man to talk to about Wirt learning to play the piano.”

Damn the girl!

“It would be wonderful to have Wirt learning from someone who’s made their career in music. He’s not interested in marching band, you see. Would $50 for a 30-minute lesson be acceptable? Maybe once a week?”

Herod stared a little. His fingers twitched.

“$50 a week?” he echoed. $200 a month.

“Yes,” the veterinarian said. "Would that be all right?“

"Mom,” Wirt hissed. "Can we talk about this?“

Herod examined the boy. Gawky, sullen, somewhat sour in the mouth. His hair needed to be combed. He darted looks up at Herod and then back down to his shoes. The pair was mismatched.

"Any day but Friday should be just fine,” Herod said.

* * *

 

Herod was in the middle of a recitative when the doorbell rang. Turtle lurched to the door and paced the hall, growling, while Herod tucked his papers into a folder and put them away. He tugged on his gloves, checked his mask in the mirror, and answered the door.

Wirt stood outside. He seemed to be holding himself there with a force of will.

Herod stepped backwards into the house, the only invitation he would make. Wirt glanced up at him and hedged his way in, wiping his feet on the mat.

Herod turned to lead the way into the music room.

“Should I take my shoes off?” Wirt asked.

Herod paused and looked back at him.

“No,” he said. "Come.“

Wirt clenched his jaws together and followed Herod into the room. Herod wandered to the windows, pulling up the curtains. Children liked natural light, didn’t they?

"Have you ever played the piano before?” he asked.

“I used to know how to play Chopsticks,” Wirt mumbled.

“Can you sight read?”

“Uh, yeah. Kind of. Mostly, anyway. I play clarinet.”

Herod shuddered delicately. "Well, that will help. Do you have anything on which you can practice at home?“

"Mom’s getting me an electric keyboard.”

“That will do. I will write down a list of compositions for you to acquire. They should be enough to get you interested in practicing. I expect you to supplement them with whatever interests you.”

Herod winced as the sun lanced in through the window and jabbed at his eyes. He turned to see Wirt looking around the room, taking in the books and the paintings on the walls.

“You may call me Mr. Bethlehem,” he said to the boy. "Do you prefer to be called by your first or last name?“

Wirt blinked at him a little. "Uh. Wirt’s…Wirt’s good, I guess.”

“Very well, Wirt. Sit down. Today you’ll learn scales, and then I have a song I want you to attempt.” He pulled the Tchaikovsky down from the shelf and put it on the end table and took a seat beside the boy on the piano bench. "Watch.“

* * *

 

"I found your podcast,” Wirt said. "Lorna told me about it.“

Herod frowned to himself, turning the page of the music book.

"I’m going to have the head off that girl,” he muttered.

Wirt stared at him.

Herod cast him a sidelong glance. "That was a joke.“

”…ah, heh,“ Wirt said.

Herod shook his head. "Did you enjoy it?”

“Kind of. I mean, yeah! It was creepy.”

“Good. It should be.”

“Yeah. Greg wants to listen to it but I think he’s too young for it.”

Greg, Greg. Oh! The little one.

“It is difficult to scare young children,” Herod replied. "Completely hit or miss proposition. You never know what will get under their skin. And even when you do it, they tend to bounce back.“

"Do you. Uh. Spend a lot of time trying to scare little kids?”

Herod tilted his head. "It’s a good way to avoid being disturbed.“

"Oh. Yeah. I guess it would be.” Wirt’s smile flickered. "Kids don’t egg your house, if they think you’re the boogeyman.“

"Mm. Scales, if you please.”

Wirt huffed and began banging out the octave.

* * *

 

“Your mother says you write poetry,” Herod said.

Wirt’s shoulders tried to climb around his ears. "I know.“

"Are you any good?” Herod asked.

Wirt stared at him, his expression confused and vaguely outraged. "I mean…I guess I…I don’t know. I don’t know! What do you mean?“

"Are you any good at it,” Herod repeated. "A simple enough inquiry. What do you write about?“

"What does this have to do with the piano?” Wirt asked, his face turning red.

Herod smiled to himself. Ah, youth.

“Let me hear how you’ve done on that section of the _Pathetique_ ,” Herod said.

Wirt staggered through it, the keys plinking and popping like unstranded pearls dropping to the floor. Herod stopped him before the damage was irreparable.

“Loosen up,” Herod said. "You sabotage your tempo when you’re so tightly wound.“

"Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just be looser. Why are you tense?”

“Because you’re telling me to be loose!”

Ah, children. It was just as well that he couldn’t lay a finger on this boy. At this rate the tension in his muscles would crack his bones before he was thirty. Talk about fear-spoiled meat.

“Is this about the poetry?” Herod asked wearily.

Wirt stared straight ahead. "I don’t like talking about it. It’s private.“

"You’re in the wrong business for privacy,” Herod drawled. "Of all the arts, writing and music are the most communicative. And the most raw. Perhaps you’d consider acting instead.“

Wirt glared at him. Herod shrugged and wandered away, taking a few steps toward the window.

"Let me assure you, from the bottom of my heart, that I could not possibly care less about your literary endeavors. It was a means of making conversation. Now, please play the _Pathetique_ again, and try to stay loose.”

Herod could feel the tight-held offense radiating off of the boy. The _Pathetique_ was very bad.

* * *

 

Herod knew he had to find a silver bullet composer for Wirt. If he didn’t find it, the boy might quit; even if he didn’t, the piano would only be a burden without inspiration.

When it came to piano, the composer to first transpierce Herod’s heart and feed it to him was Shostakovich. Those long, dark waltzes, the sensuality of it, the innocence…well, it made him light-headed.

Wirt’s silver bullet was Scriabin. Wasn’t that just like an existentialist? They’d tried it on an absolute whim, and Wirt took to it with a sudden gripping fascination. It seemed that the poet in him (or perhaps only the teenage boy) liked transgressive strangeness of it.

Two months of practice hadn’t laid enough foundation to start on something quite that ambitious. But the love of the instrument was well and truly ignited, and it made for easier going when it came to Beethoven and other, milder composers.

“What about Rachmaninov?” Wirt asked one day. They only had a few minutes left. The sun was setting, and Herod was thinking about dinner.

“I can’t help you there,” Herod replied.

“You don’t like him?”

“I like him very much, actually, and enjoyed playing him. But now I find the finger spread…difficult. Impossible, in fact.”

Wirt frowned. "Sorry. I didn’t know you had arthritis.“

Herod huffed a quiet, mirthless laugh. "Yes, well. Fate has a strange sense of humor. How about Prokofiev, today? Peter and the Wolf.”

“All right,” Wirt said. He moved the fall board up and began to pick out the tune.

Halting, a little uncertain, but appreciably stronger than before, the tune floated through the still air of the house. Herod found himself smiling to hear the sunny march into the woods and into the dappled embrace of death. It had been a long time since he’d heard that piece, requiring the full spread it did.

Wirt played as much of the march as he knew and began to stagger as the page wore on. Herod let him suffer and squirm for a few moments, before bringing down the axe.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he said quietly. "Very good, Wirt. I can tell you’ve been practicing.“

Wirt nodded and began shoving his libretto into his backpack. Herod watched this careless, animated flutter with his thoughts miles away. He hummed to himself.

"My best regards to your mother and sibling,” Herod said.

“Oh,” Wirt said. "Uh. Yeah, by the way…“

"Yes?”

“Greg kind of. Y'know. Found something of yours.”

Herod tilted his head. "Did he?“

"Yeah. He says that he found a little pie pan down the street from your house? I don’t know how he knows it’s yours, but…he wants to give it back, when you have some time.”

Herod stared at Wirt. "A pie pan?“

"Yeah, a little tiny one.” Wirt showed the size with his hands. "About this big?“

Herod frowned, trying to remember. How on earth did he–

"Oh,” he said. "Yes. That’s a ramekin, actually. I made mince pies a few weeks ago.“

Wirt nodded.

"One went missing, as I recall,” Herod added. "I’m not used to mislaying my possessions, Wirt.“

Wirt colored and rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes dropped and fixed themselves on Herod’s Persian rug. "Greg. Uh, he kind of. Sometimes, y'know. Like a little kid does? He sometimes sees things, and he…”

“Did he like it?” Herod asked, morbidly curious.

“He said it was really good, yeah. I think he thought it was some kind of rhubarb thing but then he realized it was meat.”

“Did you try it?” Herod asked.

Wirt looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. Herod smirked. Bad as the embarrassment was, it would be much worse for the young man to sink beneath the floorboards and find himself in the basement.

“Yes,” Wirt said. "And it was good. Really good! I mean I didn’t know where he’d gotten it from, or I wouldn’t have eaten any of it, but. Uh. Yeah. You’re a really good cook. Mince is mutton, right?“

"Yes, it is. Thank you, Wirt,” Herod said. "I’m gratified to hear it was tasty. Now that I know you’ll eat my food, I might have to experiment on you.“

The boy looked half-dead. "That had better be another joke, Mr. Bethlehem.”

Herod hummed a laugh at him. "Goodbye, Wirt. Tell your brother that I want my ramekin back soon. And tell him that this kind of thing could be kept a secret, if he fills it up with something to replace the lost pie.“

Wirt flashed a rapid, wincing smile and hopped to his feet. Herod saw him to the door and watched him go.

Well. Might as well just invite the whole neighborhood to dinner, at this rate.


End file.
